


This Is My Cocoon Crash

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne Tries, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Tim Drake Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: Tim Drake throws a temper tantrum in the BatCave. He and Bruce come to a pretty important realization.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 33
Kudos: 447
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	This Is My Cocoon Crash

Tim stands in the cool, damp darkness of the Cave and rage burns hot and bright in his chest. He’s slipped away from dinner, the conversation too loud, too demanding, too much. Now the silence of the Cave and the small, silver inactive pellet grenade in his hand feels quiet, smooth and perfect. After a deep breath, he hurls the grenade at Bruce’s main computer screen. It hits with a welcome crash, and the muscles he’s been tightening for weeks to smother his simmering anger loosen in his chest at the sight of the black and silver splintered screen.

The cave is noiseless again after it hits. Tim stands perfectly still, his breaths heavy in his chest. They’re too heavy, like the anger that has settled like a winter blanket over him as Bruce’s attention has been continually diverted to Jason, to Damian, to Dick, to Cass, to Steph - to everyone except Tim.

Bruce’s deep voice echoes in Tim’s memory: “Timothy Drake, you’re right. I need a Robin. I need you.”

‘I need you,’ _except when your own kids come back better and stronger and more yours, then you don’t need me._

He picks up Bruce’s desk chair and heaves it against the nearby wall and watches as the dark leather rips at the seams from the blow. He knows for a fact that Bruce paid several thousand dollars for that chair last year. Tim helped him pick it out.

His own voice echoes this time: “Bruce, this one is rated by the AMA the highest. It’ll be good for your back.”

“Thanks for looking out for me, Tim. I can always count on you.”

‘I can always count on you,’ _Except when you turn to Dick or Cass or Steph instead._

Tim pulls the batarang from his belt and hurls it at the nearest car, which turns out to be the silver Bugatti, Tim’s favorite and the first one Bruce ever let him drive. He watches as the driver side window shatters inward, glass blanketing the red leather seat, where he’d sat as Bruce ruffled his hair, that first time he let Tim take it out.

“Go ahead, Tim. Take it for a spin. I trust you.”

‘I trust you,’ _except when you don’t tell me about the new material Lucius discovered last month and I had to find out about it at today at a board meeting, where I blundered without the intel and looked like a fool in front of the adults I constantly have to convince to trust me._

This time its his fist against the widescreen TV screen to the side of the computer banks. It reflects Tim’s tear-streaked face, and the satisfying crunch of the LCD glass rings in Tim’s ears as the cut white skin of his knuckles bleeds a sharp red that holds his gaze and feels sharp and beautiful in the dim light of the Cave. He hits the screen again and lets the pain course up his arm and into his chest.

“Tim!” Bruce’s voice rings through the cavern.

Tim ignores Bruce the way Bruce has been ignoring Tim for months and he swings again. This time the glass falls to the floor and Tim’s fist hits the wall behind it. The pain is rough, dull, and deep in his bone, and when he pulls back to swing again Bruce catches his arms from behind, wrestles Tim to the cold stone floor. Tim goes down swinging, but not the way he’s been trained. Bruce taught him careful movement and control of his body, but now Tim swings wildly, the roar in his ears and the fire in his chest raging, and he wants to rail against Bruce’s body the way he’s been railing against the cave, against the abandonment simmering in his chest.

“Fuck off! Go back upstairs to your real kid and your revived kid and Dick, who really matter, and leave me alone again, Bruce! Like everyone else did, just leave me the fuck alone!” He’s screaming like he’s never let himself scream, like he’s always wanted to scream, the sound tearing his throat and echoing around the cave walls, filling the room.

Bruce pushes Tim’s bleeding hands to the floor, presses Tim down, his calloused hands on Tim’s wrists, warm against Tim’s cold skin, his heated eyes piercing Tim’s dull gaze. “Stop!”

It’s a command, so Tim stops, because, in the end, he can never stop listening to Bruce’s commands. He lets his body go slack, tries to douse the fire in his veins, tries to obey the one person he’s always been willing to obey.

Bruce brushes Tim’s sweat-soaked black hair away from his face and presses his hand to Tim’s cheek. His face is ashen, and Tim sees fear in Bruce’s eyes. It’ stops Tim cold, forces his body to freeze, to let Bruce brush his hand through Tim’s hair and talk to him like a spooked animal. “I need you to stop hurting yourself, Tim. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, and I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m not going anywhere, so please stop this, Tim.”

Tim stops. He stops thinking and he stops fighting and he lets Bruce pull him into his lap and hold him the way his parents never held him – the tight hold of a desperate father, tight and tense and scared and trying to hold the world at bay for his child.

Tim lets himself relax, but he can’t help the strangled “Bruce,” that escapes from his mouth, and Bruce holds him tighter than before, holds him and tells him things are going to be okay and tells him that he matters and that he isn’t leaving him alone again and that there’s room for all of them in this house and in his heart and that will never change and that Tim is his and never should have forgotten it.

Bruce lifts him like the child Tim is being and carries him to the med bay where he sets him gently onto a cot. Tim can only watch as Bruce gathers alcohol wipes, gauze, tape, and a few towels and moves slowly and deliberately to clean Tim’s knuckles. The red gives way to pale, split skin and Bruce scowls when he sees the damage Tim’s done. “I want an x-ray,” he mutters, and he looks up sharply and puts his hand on Tim’s tear-soaked cheek. “You did a number on yourself, kiddo.”

Tim doesn’t know what to say because Bruce isn’t mad; he sounds sad, really, and Tim’s response to Bruce’s sadness has always been to steer him back to business, either Bat or Wayne, but Tim doesn’t want to talk business today. He wants Bruce’s attention, not to divert it like he usually does. He sucks in a sharp breath at his realization.

“It’s my fault, Bruce,” he whispers because he’s figured it out. This – this is all his fault in the end.

“What’s your fault, Tim?” Bruce asks.

Tim’s hands throb, and his wrist feels like maybe he did some real damage and Bruce is looking at him in confusion and worry. Tim leans into him and lets Bruce wrap him in his arms again. “Us,” Tim finally answers. “I showed up in this cave to give you a diversion – something to help diffuse your grief and remind you of the work.” He stops to breathe, a sharp, deep breath. “I always remind you of the work.” He can’t help the whine that escapes his throat. “It’s my fault that it’s all I am here. Not yours. It’s been this way since the beginning.”

And saying it, letting the truth out into the room like that, it’s like a bucket of water drenches the fiery anger that’s been banked low and hot in his heart. He looks up at Bruce again. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry I fucked up the Cave when it’s all on me, not you. They’re not your work; they’re your kids. I get it now.” And he does. It makes sense, and Bruce isn’t denying it. He’s just working on Tim’s hands and frowning, and his eyes are dark. He helps Tim over to the x-ray room, positions him, takes the pictures, and pulls Tim back to the cot and hands him a couple of painkillers in silence.

Tim had parents. He’s an orphan and Bruce is taking care of him, trusts him. Hell, he’s given Tim a future and people around to support him, even love him; he thinks of Dick’s warm hugs and reassuring smiles. Even Jason and Damian are accepting Tim as one of their brothers. The painkillers begin to make him sleepy. He blinks slowly and looks up at Bruce again.

There are tears in Bruce’s eyes.

“Bruce,” Tim says, “It’s okay. I’m okay now.”

Bruce shakes his head and leans over Tim, pressing him back to lay down on the cot. “No, Tim. You’re wrong. You’re _not_ my work. You’re my _kid_ , and I’m sorry I haven’t made you see that after all this time. You’re my kid and you’re right – we’ve only been about the work, especially since Jason and Damian arrived. That’s not your fault,” Bruce says, and his voice drops almost to his Batman register. “It’s not your fault, Tim,” and he brushes his hand through Tim’s damp hair and down his cheek and it feels so, so good.

“I’m so tired, Bruce,” he says, and this time the tears in Bruce’s eyes fall, and since he’s leaning over Tim they fall onto Tim’s cheek and mix with his own tears.

“Believe me, Tim. You’re going to get some rest, and then we’ll figure out how to make us about something besides the work. I promise.”

And Tim knows that Bruce’s promises are airtight. He’s watched Bruce fulfill promises to rogues, to Gordon, to Wayne Enterprises, to the other Batkids for years, and this promise will hold, too.

“I’ll help you, Bruce,” he slurs as sleep finally pins him down to the cot.

“You always do, champ,” Bruce answers, and he presses Tim’s sore hand gently between his warm palms. “And I love you for it,” Tim thinks he hears, but sleep is stealing him away, so he’s not really sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Gentle Reminder: Everything I learned I learned in Fanfiction and Wiki pages (and a few Batman movies).
> 
> Also, the title is from the band called K’s Choice, and their song, “Cocoon Crash” (album of the same name).


End file.
